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  • Locked thread
Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

So Djinn is tapping out of her brawl because she is a worthless and weak excuse for a 'human being' who thinks 'going into hospital' after being 'literally physically run over by a truck' is an excuse for failing out of a internet word fight. So be it. Her challenge has fallen to the floor - A Classy Ghost has picked it up with his ectoplasmic tendrils. Toxx up and do whatever ghosts do when they're about to get beaten like a cheap rug, ACG.


Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.
In. Put that magic spell on me; slap that 'Domer, make her free.

Mar 21, 2013
In. Could I have a spell?

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

Kaishai posted:

In. Put that magic spell on me; slap that 'Domer, make her free.

Wahoo lahaa! Your spell!

kurona_bright posted:

In. Could I have a spell?

It's possible, you could have a spell, and it could be

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




Hey goons, want 200 extra words for your story?

Go to This thread and write a critique of 200 or more words and you get a word bonus!

A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet

sebmojo posted:

So Djinn is tapping out of her brawl because she is a worthless and weak excuse for a 'human being' who thinks 'going into hospital' after being 'literally physically run over by a truck' is an excuse for failing out of a internet word fight. So be it. Her challenge has fallen to the floor - A Classy Ghost has picked it up with his ectoplasmic tendrils. Toxx up and do whatever ghosts do when they're about to get beaten like a cheap rug, ACG.

I'm not sure if I need to post an acceptance post or not but here we go. :toxx: and stuff. Bit harder to work up animosity since I didn't initiate the brawl but I will make an effort.

sebmojo you write like a turd and prob smell like one too

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




Oh yeah, signups closed a while ago

don't sign up please

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again


LOU BEGAS MUSTACHE/anime was right - Untitled, a redemption from week #127
I remember competitions week providing a lot of good stories because 'write a competition' has inherent conflict. The competition, in this case between two brothers, ends up being the most interesting part of this story. Woo-Jin's internal conflict is well-realized and there's some really good bits of imagery that are used to convey his emotional state. Kurona_bright, this story reminded me of yours from week #161, where you wrote a story about a teenager who's devastated because his grade won't get him into college. In yours, he got a legitimately bad grade and everyone was overreacting. In this story, he gets a 99 out of 100 and kills himself. I'm not sure which is a better plot, but I enjoyed Lou's more, because he really got into the feelings and explored that anxiety and wishing to slip away from his life. Aside from the suicide at the end, in Lou's, people do act more like people--the brothers are friendly to each other despite their unstated competition, Woo-Jin lies and does irrational things to cover up his grades, and so on. Lou's wasn't perfect; the beginning felt particularly shaky before it hit its pace, but it wasn't bad. It definitely would have at least been middle of the pack in Week 127.

Aug 2, 2002




there was a post here but now it's not

crabrock fucked around with this message at 04:53 on Dec 13, 2015

Aug 2, 2002




snooze you loose

crabrock fucked around with this message at 04:53 on Dec 13, 2015

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




go home carbork your drunk

Aug 2, 2002




100% true

Aug 8, 2013

Submit your word vomit, you nematodes.

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

wiz well young magickians

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




Fast Subbing Good Subbing, you floppy choir of dickshits

Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?
1202 words

Antlers bloomed from Harry’s forehead like magnificent spring flowers, growing, twisting, branching out and out again into a thick bouquet of bony forehead decor. It only tickled a bit, and then he marvelled at his newfound manliness in the mirror - a majestic set of antlers, white like ivory, lush and wide, wider than his shoulders, maybe even wider than the loving Wall of China. This would impress everyone at the party. He put on a dash of perfume, Smell of Wood. Because he was like a deer. And also horny.

“You look stupid,” Tom said.

You look stupid. With your human forehead all soft and flat like a baby bum. I look majestic. Baby bum face.” He turned to leave and got stuck in the doorframe.

“You’re a beauty alright.”

Harry did not understand how the perfectly normal doorway impeded his forward momentum, so he took a step back and tried again, ad nauseum. It was like fencing. “I’m--,” attack, “--a symbol--,” parry, “--of grace,” riposte.

“Sideways, genius”

Harry tilted his head. He threw the peace sign as he backed out of the room. “Sorry you’re jelly.”

He waited at the car, because Tom had the keys.

The ride to the Sobertown School of Reasonable Wizards second term afterparty was filled with silence and Tom’s tangible disdain for Harry’s new headdress.The truth was, Tom just didn’t get it. He was one of those bourgeois wizards who only used their magical powers to fill out tax forms or ward off the impending destruction of the concept of linear timespace at the hands of chaos deity Iyallak’thar. Without Harry’s kind of artistry, the world would not be worth saving anyway.

The party took place at the requisitioned school gathering hall, and the imaginative decor, wands and brooms loosely dangling off the walls on bits of rope, said about as much about the current generation of wizards as did the disco ball that shot literal lasers across the room. But even more so, the partygoers – Harry was not the only one who embraced his inner animal spirit. There were pig-snouts and cat-tails and even a lady with a horse face, though that may have just been the expat from England.

“Oh for gently caress’s sake,” Tom said. “He fished a cigarette out his pocket and turned towards the exit. “loving hipsters.”

“Where are you going?”

Tom answered by throwing up his hands in a gently caress-all-this-poo poo manner, but Harry had already lost interest and mingled with the colorful mix of animalistic partygoers.

“...and that’s why the Beach Boys are the worst thing to come out of America since the plane that bombed Nagasaki,” said a man who seemed pretty normal and definitely reasonable at first glance.

“Hello, friend!” said Harry. “I see you share my dislike for the Beach Boys and their comatose ersatz music.”

“Truly, if the Beach Boys were animals they were probably doves, or equally boring and pest-ridden vermin. Nice antlers by the way.”

“You don’t have any animal parts?”

“They’re a bit further down there.” He winked.

Harry got himself a drink from the other end of the room.

The girl by the champagne glass tower was pretty hot – scales in vibrant colors rippled across her face, and her eyes had that kind of fire that was hard to find in an age where everyone had already seen everything on the wizardnet and was thus in a constant state of nonplussement.

“I’m a dragon,” she said.

“Yo that’s pretty cool huh,” Harry said. He posed with his antlers, cocked his head sideways, brushed the shattered champagne glasses under the table. “I meant to do that.”

“Good. Champagne is a symbol of bourgeois oppression, much like the Beach Boys, who are terrible.”

Harry was in love. And their shared distaste for terrible music was not the only thing connecting the two. From the sad lack of variety in contemporary human body composition all the way to the “bullshit of the capitalist system”, they had a scary lot in common. Talking to her was as effortless as drinking his fourth can of beer.

“You knowww,” he slurred, “I realll like you.”

“What’s that smell?” she said. “It’s a bit like pine needles.”

“That’s Smell of Wood. It’s my perfume. Because I’m a deer.”

“I see.”

“Also I’m horny.”

“Is it literally your perfume or are you just being funny?”

“No it’s literally my perfume.”

“Okay that’s bad.”


“I’m allergic to pine needle.”

The sneeze built up inside her in slow motion, approaching him like the headlights of an onrushing cargo train, dangerous yet beautiful, impossible to take his eyes off of, and then came the trainwreck, the first sprout of fire that flared out her nostrils, the flame that bloomed forward, curled back up on itself, a tiny nuclear explosion, mushroom aimed at the ceiling.

Harry opened his fifth can of beer.

The dragon lady looked from Harry up to the fire, then back to Harry, and then they both strolled away, beelining towards the exit, because sure, magical dragonfire was kind of a big deal but you still couldn’t look like a bitch in front of everyone else. Harry looked up at the ceiling, and the fire was spreading faster than he walked, so he considered picking up the pace. The dragon lady was already through the doors.

Other wizards picked up on the problem. Some tried tossing their beer into the fire, which was probably a dumb idea but they didn’t teach chemistry at wizard schools. But then nobody really knew what could extinguish dragonfire anyway. Dragon Studies were only available starting from the third term, and besides, it was the kind of course you’d only take when you were one of those useless Dragon Justice Warriors who just wanted easy Bs.

The exit became crowded. People started pushing other people, who pushed even more people further down, who, judging from the general lack of movement, probably had just stopped moving right at the exit to look at their phones in the most obnoxious place available. Harry ran to the other side of the room, through the fumes. There was chaos everywhere. People scrambled for alternative exits. Debris rained on them from above. The brooms on the wall caught on fire. So did the wands, exploding into haphazard clouds of potentially lethal magic.

Harry ran through the wide arc that led to the main hallway, down the corridor. The air was not quite as polluted here, but the fire exit was still but a green beacon in the fumes. He dashed towards it, fast like the mustang, and he reached out for the door, and he threw it open.

He got stuck in the doorframe.




“What the gently caress,” Harry said.

“Sideways genius.”

Behind him, Tom inhaled wafts of smoke and blew them back out through his nostrils, dotting the air with quivering translucent rings. The hallway cleared up.

“What the gently caress happened?” Harry said.

“I extinguished the dragonfire.”

“But… how?”

“That’s the problem. You guys only listen to poo poo music.” Tom took another drag off his cigarette and snipped the spent butt away in the most badass way possible. “All you need is Cool, Cool Water.”

Feb 25, 2014
1022 words


flerp fucked around with this message at 03:45 on Dec 29, 2015

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Whenever a shopper, jogger, or dog-walker saw Felix and Aimee Fenton holding hands, walking down Shepherd Street to the video shop, the reaction was always the same.


How could a pudgy, weak-spined, well meaning dimwit of a postman, barely capable of calculating the postage on a pale-pink Mother’s Day card sent from Mackinac Island to Wannachee, Kansas, seal the deal with Aimee Turner, the red headed Aphrodite of Jackson High School?

It came through the mail.

Felix would never steal an article of mail, for as dimwitted as he was, Felix was noble, and Aimee admired that about him years before the spell was cast. But there was something on that stormy afternoon of his future, something in the way that waterlogged box ripped asunder, something in the way the pages came fluttering from the binding like autumnal leaves, something in the page that landed face up. The ink was runny and smudged from the storm, but with a little effort, Felix could read the words:

The Apple of Benus
(1400 words)

Even Felix could calculate destiny when it landed at his feet.

But this story isn’t about the hunched, shuffling man who found love with a spellbound apple planted six feet deep in Mackinac Island. This is the story of the tree that sprouted, spread, and bloomed in the hidden thicket. This is the story of the apples that hung heavy from its spindly wooden fingers, and the children that picked them.


Kent always dragged Virginia into trouble. If there was a window shattered or a loose pet running wild somewhere between the grid-lines of white picket fences, Kent Olney was almost assuredly behind it.

Today’s objective was clear, break into the old Fenton place, a spooky house on the hillside that was left to rot after old Misses Fenton, as rumor held it, murdered her husband.

“When people bite it unexpectedly,” Kent declared, “they leave behind the good stuff.”

“But didn’t they bite it, like, ten years ago?” Virginia asked through her braces, while trying to avoid making googoo eyes at the handsome boy.

“Yeah, but they never had kids. That’s what mom says at least,” Kent declared as he emptied his school bag for the haul, “so imagine all the great stuff they must have left behind!”

They rode bikes under a canopy of leaves up the largest hill on the island. Virginia let Kent take point for the trip. She knew that there would be trouble again, but it was worth it. At the age of twelve, Virginia wasn’t sure if she could love a boy, but she thought that she loved Kent, even if he had cut his blonde hair too close and his head looked a bit like a fuzzy melon.

As he hopped the creaky privacy fence, Virginia stole glances at Kent’s backside, and when he clutched her hand as she scaled the same, Virginia held his fingers in hers for longer than she needed.

Secretly, Kent did the same.

The two didn’t find much. Apparently, even if you never had kids, people found a way to pillage the good stuff. There was one thing, however, hidden in an attic alcove, covered in dust, the two discovered a rolled topographical map.

“Here’s the house,” Virginia said.

“And here it’s marked! Think it leads to treasure?” Kent asked.

“Maybe it leads to the body of Mr. Fenton,” Virginia said.


“This is disappointing,” Kent said as hung from the tree that grew from the marked spot.

“Honestly,” Virginia said as she filled her bag with mottled red apples, “it’s better than finding a body.” She tossed one into the branches for Kent to catch, “hungry?”

“Nah,” Kent said. “I can’t stand them.”

“Well, bring some home to your mom and dad,” Virginia said.

From Kent’s spot in the shade and foliage, Virginia, with an apple wedged between her similarly red lips and juice dribbling down her chin, seemed to glow in the dying summer sun.


The last moments of Joel’s life were filled with an onerous, sad, ennui that fell upon him sometime between snacktime and dinner. The feelings accumulated, dripping on him like errant raindrops until his head was soaked.

He realized that all of it, his wife, Leslie, his son, Kent, his job as a paper pusher, this nowhere of a town that he called home. It just left him feeling empty.

Where had his life gone off the rails?

Joel had thought that he was happy. Even earlier in the day it all seemed so picturesque, like the happy paintings on a postcard. This feeling now, however, was the realization that everything was flat, painted in two dimensions.

With the cold steel of a lockbox revolver against his tongue, Joel thought of his childhood babysitter, Aimee Turner. He’d loved her, despite the age difference. Fifteen years. At the time it seemed monumental, impossible to overcome, but at fifty now, he realized just how small it was.

A missed opportunity, truly.

Still, Joel thought, Felix Fenton was a good man, humble, and always true. The two deserved each other, and each deserved better than Joel; they deserved the life they created together.

A life without him.

Somewhere up the stairwell, the basement door whined as it opened.

If only he’d been born as their child. Two have both of them in his life, Joel realized, would fulfill him.

“Joel? You down there?” his wife Leslie asked.

He would never have what they did. Not with his two dimensional wife. Not with his two dimensional son.

There were steps on the wood falling closer and closer, and soon, Joel realized, they’d squish him flat.


After the suicide, Leslie wouldn’t eat for a week, so she emptied the cupboards and pantry to feed the funeral guests. Almost half of the town showed up, and the three apple pies that Leslie had baked were among the first to be eaten up.


Helena, a sophomore at Jackson High School had planned on using her Ouija board to contact the dead father. She didn’t know Joel well, only as a distant neighbor, but when someone at the funeral had mentioned the suicide, Helena remembered the article that she read online. Suicides made restless spirits, and restless spirits were the easiest to contact in the afterlife.

The incense was smoking; the candles were in a circle and lit. Suddenly, one snuffed itself out.

“Joel, are you here?” she asked.

Her hand began to slide. No.

Somewhere in the dark and cool evening, a scream filled the air.

Helena felt something stir within her, also. It was a longing that she hadn’t known before, a hunger she had previously thought filled by her boyfriend, Glenn. How foolish. Helena pictured a couple hand in hand as they walked to the video store.

She’d never have it, she knew, like a constant dripping on her head.


Virginia’s father wouldn’t let her attend the funeral, but a feeling had been thrashing within her since her last adventure with Kent.

The town had gone to hell in the past few days. People were disappearing, some were dying; others just lingered by the spooky old house on the hill.

Virginia’s father would kill her for sneaking out, but the nagging wouldn’t relent, so she rode her bike alone in the night, not up the hill, but south of it.

Kent was sleeping when she knocked on the glass. An open window and a helping hand later, and Virginia was sitting at the foot of his bed, wrapped up in a comfortable silence.

Minutes passed.

“Mom says she’s going to move us to the mainland soon,” Kent said, breaking it.

“I was worried,” Virginia said as she played with the fringe of his comforter. “I don’t blame her. Dad says that things got weird all of a sudden.”

“Yeah,” Kent said. “You feeling weird at all?”

“Not any weirder than usual.”

The silence filled it all again.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” Kent said.

“I know, but I’ve liked you longer,” Virginia said.

“Well, I’ve liked you since before the sixth grade.”

“I’ve liked you since before the biggest trees on Mackinac were just little saplings.”

“You weren’t even alive back then,” Kent said.

“Sometimes,” Virginia said as she laid Kent’s head against her crossed legs, “seeds are planted in the ground long before they sprout, long before we even know they’re there.”

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
Fingers of a Loathful Sky

Words: 1599 (Word Bounty Performed)

Thranguy fucked around with this message at 22:58 on Dec 31, 2015

Barnaby Profane
Feb 23, 2012


Barnaby Profane fucked around with this message at 19:38 on Dec 30, 2015

Mar 21, 2013

Grimey Drawer
wordcount: 1400

The Basingstoke and Worting Ladies Thaumaturgical Society

You cannot,” said Mrs Gibson-Scythe, “use magic for such a vulgar purpose. It just wouldn’t do. Money magic? Like some charlatan hedgewitch? I think not!”

“But it’s all here,” said Amanda, tapping at the pages of the dusty book in front of her. “We can fund-raise for church repairs until the cows come home, but there’s a spell here for precisely that purpose. Dracona Pecuniam.” She read the last two words slowly, sounding out the unfamiliar syllables.

“Let me see that,” said Mrs Gibson-Scythe, grabbing the text and turning it towards her. ”A green candle, four malachite stones, patchouli. Patchouli?”

A collective groan rose from the assembled ladies.

“Filthy hippy-pagan claptrap,” said Mrs Gibson-Scythe, slamming the book shut and glancing at the gold-leaf title emblazoned on the leather cover. “Spells of Magic? As opposed to what, spells of sunshine and dizziness? I’ve never heard such preposterous codswallop.”

“I got it from Mr Fincham down on Sullivan Street. Surely he wouldn’t try to fob ...”

Mrs Gibson-Scythe scowled at Amanda. “Mr Fincham probably saw you coming from a mile away, dusted off his remainders and dazzled you with tales of eldritch mysteries revealed. I’m sorry, my dear, but the purpose of our Ladies Thaumaturgical Society is to prevent such ignorance, not encourage it.”

Amanda felt the dismissal like a lace glove to the face. She flushed deeply and mumbled an apology.

“Think nothing of it,” lied Mrs Gibson-Scythe, brushing an imaginary dust mote from her shoulder in Amanda’s direction. “Now then - I believe we have let the matter distract us from the official agenda. On to more legitimate fund-raising efforts. The White Elephant Stall. Whose turn is it to conjure the elephant this year?”

Amanda kept quiet for the remainder of the meeting, barely whispering her participation in a weight-gaining incantation for Mrs Halliwell’s premie. When the wand tapped to end the proceedings, she hurried outside, shoved Spells of Magic into her buttoned-up jacket, stepped astride her bicycle and sped off down the road.

The meeting had gone late and Amanda’s husband had long since retired to bed. Amanda, still clutching the book, crept up the attic stairs to where she had drawn her own magical circle. Just for practice, she had told herself at the time. From the attic window the full moon illuminated her carefully-drawn chalk pentagram and simply-constructed wooden altar. She placed the book on the chantry, open to the Dracona Pecuniam spell, and traced a finger down the dusty page of instructions. Then she retrieved a green candle from her collection, dipped it into a bowl of patchouli oil, lit it and placed it into a silver candelabra she had gotten from Mr Flurry’s on Riverton Avenue. From her pocket she laid out four malachite stones and a single one pence piece. The flickering candle made the stones and the coin glint erratically. “I’ll show them,” she said to herself. “Just enough for the church roof.” Her voice sounded less certain than she would have liked. She wondered if the nausea she felt was trepidation or just the patchouli oil. Nevertheless, as per the spell’s requirements, she stared at the candle flame and imagined money coming toward her.

The first incantation went quickly and gave her some confidence she was on the right track. The second recitation of the spell’s words made her tongue stiffen, as if her mouth was filled with sand. For the third repetition she had to spit the words out, and they sounded muffled and strange to her, as if coming from a vast distance away.

"By Dragon Powers of Air, Fire, Earth and Water
Money Come Forth To Me
And Three Thousand, Nine Hundred and Thirty Four Pounds Is What I Need At This Time
Harm Come To None, Multiply Now This New Penny”

The candle guttered and the room grew dark. Only the moon was left to shed its light on the altar.

Amanda waited.

Nothing happened.

Amanda checked the spell. At this point, mystic energies should have arisen and deposited the money before the altar. Had she gotten it wrong? Were those even Malachite stones? The Geology shop on Houston Road had sworn they were, but she was no expert.

The green candle burst into life with a roar. Smoke billowed, swirling around her, choking her with sulphurous fumes. On the street outside a car backfired. The smoke coalesced into an imperious flying dragon, cloaked by writhing tendrils of grey mist.

The figure opened its enormous maw and Amanda could see only darkness within, from which a coin dropped to the floor with a clunk. Amanda bent down, picked it up, then stood quickly as another coin landed on the back of the head. “Hmm,” she said. Somewhere a door slammed.

Two more coins fell from the ghostly dragon’s mouth. Then four, then eight, then more. Soon coins were coming thick and fast, collecting at her feet, smoke-dragon jaws turning into a veritable firehose of shiny pence. Pence that gravitated towards Amanda like iron to a magnet. Coins attached to her, jumping up to her knitted cardigan arms, onto her thickly stockinged legs, into her pockets. She tried to prise them off, but they were stuck fast, and more were coming all the time. They began to weigh her down. Still the dragon breathed forth, a rain, a hail storm, and then a blinding bronze blizzard. The sheer weight dragged Amanda to her knees, and then down to the wooden floor. She was covered in coins and could hear and feel more collecting on top of her, crushing the breath out of her. One ear to the floorboards, she heard footsteps pounding up stairs.

“One thousand pounds of pennies,” came a sepulchral voice. The noise of the pecuniary apocalypse grew, the riotous clanking of vast quantities of bronze and copper plated steel hitting the mound that already covered her. Amanda cursed her lack of foresight in a most unladylike fashion. Almost three thousand yet to come. She would be squashed before even half of that arrived. Even about to die, she marvelled at the dragon’s power.

At that precise moment the attic door burst open and in swarmed in the entirety of The Basingstoke and Worting Ladies Thaumaturgical Society, dressed to the hilt in sensible shoes, twinsets and hairbuns. Some brandished umbrellas, glowing with incandescent runes. Others were reaching into heavy purses from which bright light spilled. At the forefront of the throng was Mrs Gibson-Scythe, her hands tracing sigils in the air, leaving trails of mystical illumination.

“Mr Scarborough,” said Mrs Gibson-Scythe. “Thank you for your housecall at this most unseemly hour, but your services are no longer required.” She completed a sigil, and a bolt of lightning zapped toward the smoky figure. It gurgled downwards into the pages of Spells of Magic, leaving only the smell of sulphur to mix with the stench of patchouli.

The ladies, as one, began to dig Amanda out of the heap of coins until she stood abashed before them, looking from one stern face to the next as the fires of thaumaturgy dimmed and went out.

Mrs Gibson-Scythe strode forth, taking in the pentagram, the altar and the collection of multi-colored candles at a glance. “And as for you, Miss Amanda. A good thing I thought to apply a dustmite of clairvoyance upon your person. You young ladies, always so sure you can go it alone. What you never seem to realise it that the purpose of our Society is not to practice magic - we’re perfectly good at it already. Rather we keep it to manageable quantities. Together.” She turned to one of the assembled ladies. “Mildred, for God’s sake woman, put the kettle on.” Her voice softened, but only a little. “The poor dear has had a terrible shock. We’ve all been there. The rest of you, clean up, and put these...” she kicked at a coindrift, “...into the vault. Don’t miss any, not after last time. Now, Amanda, downstairs, chop chop.”

Amanda obeyed the command like a sheepish schoolgirl, head down and hands in pockets … where she felt the jingle of coins and the tiniest tingle of power. She wondered what had happened last time. Perhaps, she thought, Mister Fincham would know. A little magic, a little foresight...what could possibly go wrong?

“Everything,” said Mrs Gibson-Scythe from behind her, hand outstretched, waiting.

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

Grimey Drawer
Magic Spell: Grimner's Nid
1058 Words

“Moistman, we have a job. Grim Nidder is causing trouble downtown.” Captain Steampunk placed his pneumatic fist on my shoulder. It slipped off, but not before a green light flashed to indicate it was full. This was all I could do, be slippery and fill objects with water, like a greased watering can. I hated my name, but apparently I was the first hero to join the Super Enforcers after the PR decision to try sillier names. I wanted to be a real hero.

We went to the garage which homed the Steamcycle. I was facing the back in a harness, my hands gripping the water tank, the only way it would have enough to run. If it wasn’t for my first power, I’m sure my name would be The Amazing Water Supply. Why couldn’t I have better powers, like Shooting Star’s explosive flight? When we arrived downtown, buildings were rubble, people were screaming, and dark clouds gathered above. Hundreds of goblin-things, some made of stone and others of wood, continued the destruction. I had read Grim Nidder’s file, they were called landvaettir, earth spirits. In the middle of the chaos was Nidder himself, constantly raising more minions from the ground by chanting and waving his horsehead staff. I undid my harness.

Captain Steampunk would take care of the problem, as usual. The first landvaettir that charged him was turned to splinters with a pop of his pneumatic fist. The second had its head chopped off with a whirling gear axe. The third thought it could sneak behind us, but Captain Steampunk drew and fired his pistonle, piston pistol, probably the only thing with a name dumber than mine. Effective, though, because the piston smashed through the landvaettir’s stone heart, causing it to collapse. I tapped his equipment throughout the fight, here and there, to keep all fuel lights green.

Three down, an army to go. The ground split between us and another landvaettir crawled out, bending its wooden form in strange directions. It tried to swipe at me and I slid away, but before I could move back beside Captain Steampunk, six more engaged him and kept him from helping. The wooden one approached and swiped at me again, but I ducked under and behind it. When it swung back, I tried to block, but using my power caused its arm to double in size as it grew branches, which clawed across my hands. I fell from the pain. As the landvaettir was going to strike again, Captain Clockwork shouted, “Moistman!” He fired the pistonle, stopping the landvaettir attacking me, but another one grabbed him from behind. It choked him, but he managed to say before passing out, “Moistman, protect the citizens.”

There was no way I could do this alone, I had to get backup. Shooting Star could show up soon, if I could reach her. I ran, occasionally glancing behind to see the landvaettir tearing down more buildings. What made me stop was the sight of a crying child, so I changed course to her and said, “You need to run with me.”

She looked up at me and said, “Who’re you?”

“Moistman,” I said, embarrassed. She looked shocked. I continued, “I know it’s a dumb name.” Then she pointed. I looked, there were landvaettir already here, so we couldn’t run now.

“You can beat them. You’re a superhero, Moistman,” the child said. A stone vaettir jumped past me to her.

“No!” I grabbed it. It stopped, but not because I secretly had super strength. Instead, water flowed from its joints. First a trickle, then a stream, then a flood as its minerals were eroded in seconds, leaving only pebbles in a puddle. I briefly marveled at the result of my power. I couldn’t marvel too much, though, because I had to deal with more. I defeated the stone ones with just a touch, but the wooden ones were tougher until I remembered what happened before. I touched one’s feet, causing roots to sprout which bound it to the ground. I continued to pour water into it and eventually an unmoving tree stood in place my opponent. I dealt with the others the same way.

“I knew you could it, Moistman!” The child smiled.

“I need you to stay safe here, okay? I need to stop the bad guy,” I said.


Confident that she would listen, I strolled through hordes of landvaettir, disabling them all. Grim Nidder wasn’t chanting when I reached him, instead he held a knife to Captain Steampunk’s unconscious form. “Another step and I make him a blood sacrifice,” Nidder threatened.

“Let him go, you’ve lost.”

“Aww, the two-bit upstart hero thinks he has me. What’s your name?”


“Hehe, what an unfortunate name. Well Moistman, I still have a trick up my sleeve.” Still holding the knife in one hand, he shook his horsehead staff with the other. As he chanted, there was an earthquake. A gigantic hand exploded from the asphalt, then another, and together they pushed a titanic form from the earth. Grim Nidder’s file had mentioned it too, Moldthurs, a demonic earth giant. It looked down on me with dead eyes.

“Yes, it is an unfortunate name. For you.” I tapped Moldthurs and it collapsed, then I rushed Grim Nidder while he was disoriented. He recovered as I grabbed for Captain Steampunk. Nidder thrusted the knife at him, but I put myself between them and the knife pierced directly through my heart. At least it would have, if it didn’t rust and break and slip away. “Are you done?” I asked.

“I will have my revenge, Moistman!”

I decided to practice a heroic punchline. “I hate to rain on your parade.” Then I knocked him out. I’d need to work on that.


“It is with great honor that I present the New Hero of the Year award to my partner, Moistman,” announced Captain Steampunk. Clapping rumbled around me, even Shooting Star was applauding me. As I marched onto stage, I looked at the child in the crowd who I had saved. She smiled at me. Camera flashes ambushed me at the podium. I took the award with one hand and shook Captain Steampunk’s pneumatic fist with the other. A green light flashed.

I leaned into the mic and began, “When I started, I hated my name.”

Apr 22, 2008

New Year, new thread!

Killer-of-Lawyers fucked around with this message at 17:54 on Jan 4, 2016

Aug 2, 2002




Unrequited Love
1397 words

crabrock fucked around with this message at 22:54 on Dec 31, 2015

Social Studies 3rd Period
Oct 31, 2012


Wordcount: 1267 words
Spell: Gyrokinesis

“What’s the password?”

Joseph glanced around, hesitated, and decided that it was safe enough. Plenty of others had made the their own gestures in front of him: flashes of flame, blinking lights, growing fingers…

Fumbling, he pulled one of several balls of tinfoil from his winter coat, unwrapping it to display a still hot, fresh gyro from his restaurant. In response, the voice behind the door grunted impatiently.

Joseph whipped back his arm and threw his eventual dinner in the air. Throwing his arm out in a dramatic fashion, he concentrated, urging the sandwich to come to a sudden stop. It wiggled awkwardly in the air before returning to his hands.

The eyes behind the door glanced him over a final time, before the old wooden door swung open, allowing him to enter the hideout.


Doing his best to smile, laugh and wave at all his friends, Joseph desperately hoped none of them would try to join him at his booth. He slouched down in a failed bid to make himself look less suspicious, and glared at his phone. The meeting would be starting soon, and his mysterious handler would want his answer beforehand.

“Hey, Joe!”

Hanging up the phone, Joseph sat up straight, hoping the smile on his face didn’t look as awkward as it felt. The call had connected, but only for a few moments. He knew that calls could be traced, they mentioned it to him several times, but never how much time the tracing would need. It couldn’t have been enough to give away the hideout’s location for the week, right? Joseph discarded those thoughts as his friend Donald took a seat next to him.

“‘Sup, Don.” The two traded pleasantries, as well as their talents. Even if it wasn’t as good as the real thing, magically created beer was still good enough for the price tag of a few of his gyros.

“You look super bothered about somethin’, buddy. Everything alright? That wife of yours doin’ alright?” Don asked, reaching over to clap Joseph on the shoulder, already a few drinks in. Joseph shrugged away the question with a shrug and a shushing motion. Up at the podium, an old man in a funny looking hat began to read off roll and the memorial list, before launching into his presentation.


“... magical talent, no matter how insignificant, is something to be treasured. Protected.”

Fidgeting in his seat, Joe looked at his phone and decided, then and there, that he was going to call the whole thing off. There was no way it was worth it. But his earlier, failed attempt kept whispering to his mind, and fear took his heart.

He couldn’t tell them, could he? Would they believe him, the one who possibly sold them out?

Turning his head, he eyed his friend Donald. Despite being able to summon alcohol from wherever it was that magic came from, the little man was a notorious lightweight. Even with one and a half of those gyros devoured, Don seemed in danger of nodding off to sleep during the meeting. Joseph couldn’t blame him.

“... the greater community has no right, no right to sequester those of us away who cannot afford their policies!” The speaker at the podium droned on, the same as every week.

Was that the sound of people outside the door?

“Don. Hey, Don. You mind if we step outside for a second?”

The drunk man mumbled and barely stirred. Every sound seemed to be a malevolent force closing in on the magical little hideaway. Even as someone kept the temperature cool and refreshing, Joe felt beads of sweat beginning to drip down his face.

The old wooden door suddenly swung off its hinges, as men and women in uniforms began to march inside and began to arrest those without a minor practitioner's permit. Those who could vanish, did. A few fireballs and beams fired out at the attackers, but it was no use, they had surprise and numbers on their side. Joseph could only watch as they were led out the door, to whatever fate awaited those like himself, and—

He blinked, and Don was still barely keeping his head up next to him, the man at the podium banged his fist against the table, and the meeting went on.

“Goddamn psychics,” Joe sighed. He slid back in the booth and closed his eyes, finally feeling like he could relax. And then his phone chirped once, signaling a text.

From an unknown number.

be out in 5 min or else

The text deleted itself before his very eyes. With his heart thumping, he glanced around the room, before remembering Don once again. If his friend wouldn’t stir, he would have to find some way to make it happen.

One minute ticked by, as the speaker seemed at the podium seemed to be nearing his conclusion.

Two minutes passed as ever attempt to nudge, prod or move Don to life failed completely.

With only two minutes left on his clock — and was that the sound of a car outside? — Joseph debated leaving his friend behind and escaping into the night. In the end, it would all be worth it, right?

He tried one final thing.

A window shattered as two, three, four gyros went flying through it, followed by the remaining pieces of his own dinner. Joseph counted his blessings as Don finally seemed to snap to something resembling awareness.

“What the hell, man? Those were gonna be my lunches for—”

“Sorry. Sorry. I just kinda — looked over and then they were flying. You know how it is.” Joe raised his voice, “Sorry, everyone. Uh. I’m just gonna. Go get those, if that’s okay. Don, you want to help me get those? They were wrapped up, so they should be alright.”

Don grumbled and rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily, and slipped out of the hideaway’s back door with the rather insistent gyrokineticist.

“Don, listen to me.” The smaller man didn’t want anything to do with friend, mumbling a reply as he slipped to his hands and knees, searching through the dimly lit alley for his missing sandwiches.

“Don, please! I need to talk to you, this is really important!” Joseph begged, falling to the ground next to his friend. It took some effort, “If you — if you could make everything go away, and stop worrying that some freak little accident will wind you up on a list, or… or worse… would you do it?”

The jolly little man who could summon beer, who was the best friend of every party, had a look of horrified realization fall across his face. From somewhere close by, a sound eerily similar to a heavy wooden door hitting the ground could be heard. Steadily, Don rose to his feet as they listened to the shouts and fighting within the hideout.

“I think,” Don said, slowly, as he stumbled his way toward the back door, “I think that we need to go inside, right now. Or maybe. Maybe I should. Bye, Joe. Say hey to the wife for me.”

Almost every single day in his restaurant, Joseph found himself using his ability without thinking. Accidentally drop the veal? No problem when it never hit the floor. Or maybe he had an ingredient across the room he was too bus to get! Yet, all it would take was one report to put him — wherever minor magic talents wound up at.

Wherever his friends were going.

His minor practitioner's permit arrived in the mail a day later. He hung it in his little restaurant, right above the entrance.

take the moon
Feb 12, 2011

by sebmojo
Cold Turkey
1598 words

Kristle fast forwarded through school at first, trying to get to the next mystery. She was a ghost detective, and this was the crux of her identity. When she was doing anything other than solving ghost mysteries, she could feel her soul start to come apart, to stretch through her body and wisp out through her nose and ears, joining the air, the still air, the ordinary air.

In those days she would spring down the steps of Leawood High at last bell to meet Judson, who’d be leaning against his Trans Am, hair slicked back, he said, with the blood of his enemies (but he really used his mom’s hair spray.) Judson was literally too cool for school, but he’d hang out nearby anyway, hitting on Kristle’s classmates. (Kristle had made it clear from the first time they met that she was married to ghost detecting.)

What they had in common was that they both hated boredom.

Kristle had found the time perception spell in the old Blache house on the outskirts of town, where magic seeped in from the surrounding forest and infected the timber, she thought, that the house was made of. The town was founded when a group of settlers got tired of hiking their way through the forest and decided to just start chopping trees up and using the wood to build houses. The Blache house was the only one to survive the great Leawood fire, which happened shortly after the town’s conception.

The Blaches, Kristle had discovered, hunched over a book in the library while Judson lit a cigarette in front of the hawkish librarian’s disbelieving face, had been witches, or at least the whole town had been convinced of this when they converged outside the Blache house, with flaming chairs and other improvised weapons. But when they had broken into the house, the Blaches had simply not been there.

The residents of Leawood didn’t want to waste a perfectly good house. So a quick sanctifying ritual was done and a new family moved in. But that family reported disturbing dreams. Their youngest daughter said that in her dream a woman with shriveled skin and grotesque teeth was choking her with ragged hands. When she woke up, she said, her hiccups were gone.

For the next couple hundred years, the house had been abandoned. By the time anyone with access to a bulldozer had thought to demolish it, concerned historians had stepped in, citing the house as a reminder of simpler times. The stories began to spread. Kids going in there on dares disappeared forever, their parents looking somber in the checkout lanes at the greengrocer’s.

So Kristle and Judson had decided to explore it. They were fresh off of dealing with an infestation of ant-men from across the galaxy. (Kristle had opened that case file after she noticed that a stranger in town had antennae peeking out from under his hat.) As they pulled up outside, the sloped roof seemed to split the moonlight in two, the light cascading down the the edges, spilling off the eaves and bathing the house in a white glow.

In the end, it turned out that there was a family of vampires living in the house; Kristle had solved the mystery when one had leapt off the bannister of the front staircase with its teeth bared. She had frozen in fright, but in midair its obsessive compulsion had been triggered by her untied shoelaces. It had crashed to the ground and Judson had kicked it a few times. After that the two had split up, dealing with any similar attacks in a similar way, sending the terrible creatures crashing out the closest door or window in an effort to escape their unkempt attire.

The time perception spell had been in what was, if Kristle remembered right, the bedroom once used by the daughter who suffered such terrible nightmares. The room was now covered in strange symbols; Kristle recognized Hecate’s Wheel, the Native symbol for Good Prospects, and what looked like the Hindu Trishula. When she entered the room, a coiled parchment fell softly to the floor, as if it had been hanging in the air until seeing it had disrupted whatever kept it up there.

The spell was written in perfect English, and the first time Kristle read it her eyes almost glazed over from how useless it seemed. But then she remembered how boring Mr. Haywood’s class was, and with a shrug, committed it to memory. It was a short incantation, easy to remember.

That’s when it started, and her tentativeness lasted as long as it took for her to confirm the spell worked. Soon she was whipping through her own education as if it was a commercial on a show she’d taped. This didn’t affect how well she did in school; her performance had never been amazing, but it didn’t get worse, either. She just watched herself answer questions whenever she was called on. When she was writing tests her hand was a blur; she’d watch as it filled in the white spaces under the questions and then added a period.

She fast forwarded the lunch hour, which she typically spent being bored and eating terrible food. She fast forwarded through after school responsibilities such as cleaning the chalkboard or replacing the erasers. One time, she watched with surprise as she launched a paper airplane towards the back of Mr. Haywood’s head. The plane rocketed forward at about Mach 2 and she expected his head to explode when it made contact. She got detention for that. She fast forwarded through detention too.

And after every school day Judson would pick her up and they’d go deal with whatever supernatural menace was threatening Leawood that day. Leawood was an old town and held many secrets, the kind only ghost detectives could uncover.

But there was a problem. Time moves faster when you’re enjoying yourself, and it seemed like even the monster chases had quickened in her eyes. Judson and Kristle thwarted an ancient pharoah’s curse that sent a mummy rampaging through the museum at night, damaging expensive and timeless exhibits. They convinced a werewolf who was posing as a family’s pet dog to quietly leave town leaving a friendly note stamped with a paw mark. It turned out the gargoyle that perched on top of city hall had opinions that differed politically from that of the Honourable Mayor Weldon Quelch. They left him alone since he didn’t seem to be acting on his prejudices, but it was an interesting conversation which left Kristle feeling better informed.

Eventually the mysteries started to dry up. At first Kristle didn’t want to admit to herself what was happening, but she did know, deep down. Leawood was a small town with many secrets, but it was still a small town. There were only so many corners to brighten. Eventually, Kristle realized that she was solving Leawood itself, and once she had solved it, it could never be unsolved.

And like anything that was addictive, she began using the time perception spell more and more.

Judson didn’t notice anything was happening. He seemingly didn’t even have a problem with the situation in general. Sometimes he would be too busy making time with his groupies to even notice her. So on these occasions she wouldn’t even bother. She’d walk home herself, and she’d fast forward that walk home, and when she got home she’d fast forward the rest of her day.

Soon she was fast forwarding her whole life.

She’d fast forward discussions with her parents, who seemed distressed about something, but she didn’t really pay attention. She vaguely noticed that she was spending more time in the guidance office, but this was not engaging either and she kept fast forwarding. Soon, it seemed, she was done going to school, and maybe she was going to a different school? It was so hard to tell. She kept thinking that maybe she should slow down, and try to find out what was going on, but nothing that happened to her was interesting enough to make her put on the brakes. She just spent all her time in her room, by herself, staring at a computer screen, reading static text.

One day she watched herself take a phone call. She wasn’t sure how old she was since she was skipping through birthdays. There had been at least a handful. She didn’t stop for the phone call, but she did stop when she saw herself meet the person from the other end. It’s Judson, she thought, but now he was wearing wire rimmed glasses and carefully pressed clothes and all he wanted to talk about, seemingly, was economics.

“Remember those adventures we used to have?” he finally said, almost as an aside. “Solving mysteries and whatnot? What a lark.”

On a whim she put herself in slow motion. She watched as her field of vision moved up and down, tracing Judson’s face and upper body, moving from his neatly brushed hair to his unnaturally straight tie. A nod.

There are two kinds of ghosts, she thought. The kind that haunt us, and the kind that move us around. I am a ghost. I am the ghost mystery that I never solved.

As her final gift to herself, she fast forwarded through the rest of the conversation. Watched herself politely make excuses. Watched herself leave him there, signalling for the cheque.

She waited until he was gone from sight, adjusted her perception until time seemed normal, and never used the spell again.

Aug 2, 2002





Feb 25, 2014


Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

Grimey Drawer

By the spellbook.

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.

not emptyquoting.

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.
Brothers and Sisters
Spell: Zac Merman Spell when wet Spell
(1,369 words)

"Say it."

"I don't want to!" Zachary tried to back away from the sea that chilled his nine-year-old feet, but his sister Aileen had hold of his arm and pinched him with all her eleven-year-old strength.

"Say it," Aileen said again. "It has to be you. The spell only works for boys."

Zach said, "It's dumb!" and got a fresh bruise for his trouble.

There was nothing for it: as stupid as it was, as stupid as he felt, he would have to do what Aileen wanted, as always. It was so stupid, though. Even on a nighttime shore empty of other people, Zach mumbled the words she'd taught him. "When wet fish-like tail, when dry feet return to me...." What did that even mean?

When his legs melted into a tail the color of flesh, he found out.

"This is great!" Zach thrashed his new feature around and sent water flying straight into Aileen's face. She let go of him to scrub her eyes, and he half rolled and half crawled for the ocean and freedom. He nearly made it, but his sister lunged for him and sat hard on his fins.

She said, "You have to promise! Get us fish and clams and things we can eat, then come back!"

"You don't deserve anything!"

"For Mama," Aileen said. "For Iris."

Zach continued to struggle, and his tail had more power than his legs had yet grown into. He broke free. But before he dove underwater completely, he said, "I promise."

There weren't any lights in the ocean, making it less awesome than he'd hoped. Zach swam through a dark world, swiping at fish without touching them, escaping nasty, biting things with help from his practice in dodging Aileen. In two hours he was exhausted and still empty-handed. But he couldn't go home with nothing. Not unless he wanted his entire arm to end up black and blue.

A note too high-pitched for human ears hit him from his left. Startled, he stilled; the note came again, sharper now. Zach spun and flailed away from the source, too tired and too slow to get very far.

"Hey!" a voice hailed him. A boy's voice!

Zach turned to face the speaker. The water around him lit up suddenly: a merboy about Aileen's age floated nearby, holding a glowstick of some kind in his fist. He had brown hair, glittering orange scales on his tail, and enough muscle definition even at thirteen-or-so that Zach instantly wanted to look just like him.

"Oh, wow," the boy said. "I've never seen a human as little as you."

"How'd you--hey, I'm not that little!"

"You're way little. I know you're human because real mermen sparkle." The boy waved the glowstick in the direction of Zach's flesh-toned scales. "So what are you doing here?"

"Fishing, I guess," Zach said.

The merboy frowned. "Alone?"

"My mom works all the time, but she doesn't make much money. It's up to me to help." Zach tried to sound proud and confident. Judging by the merboy's face, he'd failed miserably.

"Okay, well... you want a hand?" the merboy asked.

"Yeah! Please!"

"Right! I'm Neil, by the way."

Neil led him into deeper waters until they found a school of tuna, each half the size of Zach himself. The boys together managed to catch a huge yellowfin and haul it back to the shallows by Zach's house. Neil left him there, but that wasn't so bad, because as soon as Zach got up to the surface Aileen waded out to grab the fish and wrestle it to the shore.

Eventually she remembered Zach too and seized his wrist to pull him onto the sand. His tail split apart once it dried: he had legs again.

"That's pretty good," Aileen said. "Get some sleep so you can do it again tomorrow." Sadly, he was too tired to kick her.

All his days afterward were like that. Aileen herded him to the beach every morning, and he swam until he was worn out, sometimes coming home with nothing. Other times, he met Neil and the boys would catch as much food as both could carry. Neil taught Zach to use the sonar that had come with his tail, and once Zach could "see" even without glowsticks, he didn't have to be prodded into the water. He rather preferred it to being pinched on land.

His mother didn't like her son going out to sea alone, but she liked the food Zach brought to the table quite a lot. His little sister Iris grew up thinking it was normal that her brother was a part-time merman. He brought them both pearls to make them smile; he didn't bring Aileen any, and she never asked.

At least Neil kept his life from being all work: for years the boys met up to fish, to play, to have supper at Neil's undersea cave, or to complain about their respective sisters.

"What if I stayed down here?" Zach asked.

He and Neil lay stretched out on the ocean floor, watching the world drift by. At eighteen to Zach's fourteen and in medical school, Neil had less time for games but checked up on his friend as time allowed. "You're still young to be on your own," Neil said.

"I've been on my own for five years, except for you. I love Mama, I love Iris, but--you've been my real brother for ages."

"You can crash in my old cave if you want, whenever you want. Maybe you should talk to them first, though?"

"Yeah, and get smacked," Zach muttered.

"I didn't say talk to Aileen. Even to her, though, say goodbye. Or tell her to eat a dick."

That thought, at least, was too appealing to be denied.

Rough winds made chop of the waves at the surface. Even with his impressive merman musculature, Zach struggled to get his head clear of the water, and when he heard Iris's thin voice calling, "Zach!" it was a fight to turn and see her standing in front of their door.

"Aileen's on a boat!" Iris shouted. "Out in that!" She pointed past him.

A white shape bobbed on the grey churn. A rowboat--where had she gotten that? When? Zach dove and arced through water that pushed him off course, clawing his way toward the vessel that somehow hadn't capsized yet. He glimpsed Aileen's strained, pale face; she had the oars in her hands yet, was beating at the sea as though pure will might get her through.

She spotted him. "Zachary!"

Zach reached a hand up to her. "Idiot! Come on!"

Aileen hesitated, but then she grabbed it hard enough to bruise. This time he didn't mind.

"Breathe when I tell you," he said. "Breathe now!" She sucked in air, and he dove with his arms around her. He drove toward the beach for a few seconds, then forced them up to the surface again. "Breathe!" Again. "Breathe!" Aileen sobbed for those breaths, but she took them. Zach could see the house lights and Iris. They were almost to shore.

The water slapped him hard, and he tightened his hold on Aileen--but lost his balance, and the sea shoved him fast and hard into a shoal. His shoulder struck it. Something cracked. His head struck it. He couldn't see or remember how to swim.

"Zachary, don't you dare," his sister yelled in his ear. Hands were tight around his wrists. Pulling. Always pulling. He was aware of Aileen kicking them the rest of the way to land, aware of sand rasping on his skin and scales. Then wood: the porch, the floor. Iris threw a blanket over them both, then knelt to kiss his cheek.

"What was with the boat?" Zach murmured.

Aileen said, "I've been fishing--trying to learn--all year. I can't do it as well as you. I can't feed them like you, but someday you'll leave. Don't leave now. Don't." Her hold on his good arm was gentle, though.

"Not yet, I guess... you'll do fine and I'll help. Probably always, like it or not. You're all family."

"Idiot," Aileen said, and she squeezed his hand.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

These dentures won't stop me from tearing out jugulars in Thunderdome.

(1000 words)
Body Shifter


See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 17:08 on Dec 30, 2015

Mar 21, 2013
A Flight Home (1008 words)

Ri plucked another glass out of the air and began polishing it. He looked out across the tavern, and frowned. Frieze would usually be here by now. Ever since that evening where she'd walked in and given him the fright of his life - as well as the task of telling his boss why twenty of her glasses were in shards on the ground - she came every evening. But she wasn't here. He frowned and started working at a particularly stubborn water spot.

Right as Ri finished, a gentle cough caused him to look up. Frieze was there. He started, and every one of the glasses surrounding him did so as well. "Y-yes?"

"Your cheapest, please." She slid him some coins, and after he counted them, fetched her her drink. She smiled. "Thanks."

Ri found himself smiling back, which was a surprise. Even with her reassurance that he was no longer a wanted man, he'd been incredibly on edge the first couple of nights she was present - enough so that Suzanne had told him to lay off with the fancy magic and just keep the glasses on the bar top where they wouldn't suffer the risk of shattering on the tavern floor.

If Frieze hadn't told him all charges were dropped, he'd probably be on the run right now.

He found himself staring at her as she tipped her glass back and drank. Strange, really. That they'd ever been a thing. Him, a teacher at a now-nonexistent spell academy. Her, one of the most famous mages in the Mineke city guard.

She looked up, and he glanced away, flushing. He swore he could feel her smirk.

"So what's with that map on the far wall?"

Ri looked up. "Oh, that. Suzanne's idea. Anybody passing by can take one of the pins from the box below and mark where they came from."

Frieze raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dangerous."

"Not really." Ri placed another freshly-polished glass on the counter. "Once you stick a pin in, it doesn't come out. And the box's warded so only one person can take one pin."

"Hm. Smart."

Another pause. Then Frieze abruptly asked, "You're getting off at midnight, right?"

"Uh, yes." Ri looked at her askance. "Why?"

She flapped a hand at him. "Just wondering."

Then she slid her glass back towards him. "See you later."

"Wait, what do you mean?" But she didn't hear or simply ignored his question as she made her way to the exit. Knowing Frieze, probably the latter. Ri sighed and set her glass aside for washing. Business was slow tonight - everybody was spending time with their families this time of year.

Another hour passed, and right as he was getting ready to get off - all glasses cleaned, polished, and sitting on solid ground - someone called his name.

Ri turned. Suzanne was standing in the doorway, and waved him over into her office.

He barely managed to avoid stepping on a pile of papers on his way in. "Is there anything you need?"

Suzanne looked at him, and said, "Miss Frieze talked to me."

He went very still.

"She explained a lot about you. And why you came here." She gave him a sly look. "You've managed to get involved with a lot of trouble for someone who was framed for blowing up an entire school."

Tension bled out of him, and Ri sighed. "For the last time, I *didn't-*"

"Doesn't matter," Suzanne said, cutting him off. "I just brought that up so you'd stop looking like you're on death row. Anyways, I just want to tell you that I'd be fine if you went back."

Ri felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "Do you want me to go?"

"No! That's not what I meant. It's just that..." Suzanne walked back over to her desk and sat, resting her head on her hands. "You get all droopy whenever you talk about your family. You miss them."

Ri couldn't quite meet her gaze. "Yes."

"C'mon, look at me." When he did, she smiled at him. "I'm not mad at you. It's nice to know why you never marked your hometown on our map, though."

Suzanne continued, "I don't want you to leave - your magical floating glasses have been good for business. It's also incredibly cool to watch. But if you want to see your family, do so. Jenny and Alfie can pick up the slack. You don't have to come back, but I'd appreciate a letter if that's the case."

"Alright." Ri nodded, uncertain of what else to say. "Thank you."

"No worries. Now get out."

He left her office, uncertain of what exactly he should be feeling. And then he nearly crashed into Frieze, who had evidently been waiting for him.

Ri reflexively jerked back. Friezelooked at him, smile on her lips. "Had a good talk?"

"Well... yes."

"So have you made a decision?" Frieze asked.

"Yes." He smiled at her. "Thank you for believing in me and clearing my name."

She flushed. "It was mostly Taki's work. I was... angry."

"Oh." Ri considered this for a moment, then offered, "Well, it's not like running away like that looked good."

"It didn't. But I'm sorry for not trusting you." Frieze met his gaze.

Ri laughed. "I forgive you. And I'm sorry, too. It must've been a very uncomfortable situation for you to find yourself in."

Frieze smiled briefly, tremulously, then held out a hand. "Well?"

Ri turned and walked over to that raggedy pincushion of a map on the tavern's wall. The pinheads gleamed in the dull candlelight. His fingers scrabbled briefly in the mounted box by its side for another sharp pin, and he pushed that firmly into the cluster surrounding Meneke's dot.

When he turned back, she was beaming.

Ri cleared his throat. "Fly me to where I want to go. I want to go home." He paused and added, softly, "So mote it be."

They left the tavern, hand-in-hand, and rose silently into the sky. Only a gaping drunk witnessed their passing.

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

Spell to Close Submissions Spell
You will need:
-A deadline
-Believe it will work

Use this spell when both co judges have gone to sleep without closing submissions!!! by wizzardchick96

1. Make a circle of offering on your desk using pineapple fanta
2. Chant the magic words "if I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake"
3. Don't read any stories

Tell me if this works!!!

:siren: BUT WAIT :siren:

SadisTech, Silmarildur, Meinberg, and A Classy Ghost, you all get hexed for your lovely failure you lovely wizards! (not poo poo wizards, just lovely wizards)

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet
Dog Story
872 Words

Dink entered the Friend Fixers store. The inside looked like a traditional pet supply store, but a careful observer might have noticed the lack of pet food and the abundance of batteries. There was no one in the store aside from the clerk standing behind the counter.

“Hi, can I look at the robodogs you have available?”

“Of course, sir. Is your pet outside, or did you bring its data for upload into a new body right away?”

“Oh, I don’t have that stuff,” Dink said, waving his hand to indicate it wasn’t important.

The clerk took out a large book and opened it. She flipped past sections with bird and cat pictures, then stopped at one titled DOGS. “That’s alright,” she said, “we can just browse the available models and you tell me which one fits best. What type of dog was it?”

“At first I was thinking maybe a Welsh Corgi, but those little legs look like a hassle,” Dink said, smiling, “so now I’m thinking something more like a German Shepherd, maybe.”

The clerk had been flipping quickly from the Corgis to the German Shepherds but stopped and looked up at Dink, frowning. “Ah, we normally recommend going with the same breed and size as the original pet.”

Dink grinned and replied, “Sorry, I guess I wasn’t clear. This is for me.”

The clerk tilted her head and her smile faltered. “Pardon?”

“I want you to put my mind inside a robodog.”

The clerk snapped the picture book shut, her smile now just a hard line. “Friend Fixers follows a strict moral and ethical code, sir” she said, spitting the last word. “We also do not break the law. Please leave immediately or I’ll call the police.”

Dink kept smiling, thanked her for her time, turned around and left. He didn’t bother arguing with her, nor was he surprised by her reaction: it was already the third Friend Fixers store he visited that day.

His phone rang during his walk back home. It was his girlfriend, haranguing him for being late and for not having picked up the groceries she’d asked for yet. Dink apologized, despite the fact that this was the first time she brought up these groceries. He promised he’d pick them up and hung up with a sigh.

When Dink walked by the dog park, he stopped and stared at the barking, running, playing dogs for a long, long time.


Dink decided that if Friend Fixers were not going to help him, he would find what he needed in another, perhaps less savory place. After a few days of poking in the deeper reaches of the Internet, he managed to lie his way into a meeting in some bar’s shady back room, where three polite but very serious gentlemen made it very clear that Dink would need much more money than Dink had available in order to get what he wanted, and that Dink should not lie his way into meetings again unless Dink had a serious offer, otherwise Dink would find himself at the bottom of a lake.


Dink decided to change his approach. If no one was going to do it for Dink, then he’d do it for himself. He loaned eBooks from the library, downloaded technical manuals, studied the science and the technology behind it. He began assembling his own rudimentary version of of the device in his garage, following the advice of other amateurs on the web doing the same thing. He salvaged and swiped pieces from the local dump, including a deactivated robodog.

This robodog was his greatest find, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a Jack Russel Terrier that seemed to have been thrown out because it’s back legs were twisted and non-functional. Repairing the robodog’s legs ended up needing twice as much time spent studying and tinkering than the device itself had taken, but Dink persevered.

His relationship worsened. His girlfriend didn’t understand Dink’s new robodog hobby, and did not realize what his true goal was. She ridiculed him every time she saw him work on his project, saying it was a waste of time.

The day finally came. Dink strapped himself in the device, having already secured the lifeless robodog to the opposite end. He activated the countdown and closed his eyes. A small shudder shook his body

He hadn’t even left a note for his girlfriend.


“Yeah, it’s a rescue. We found it just walking down the street, no collar, no tags, nothing. We tried asking around but no one reported him lost, so we’re keeping him for now.”

Two couples were seated in a living room in front of a roaring fireplace. A young child, about 9, was playing with an excited Jack Russel Terrier. The dog’s tail was wagging so fast it made the fire’s flames waver.

“I don’t think his tail has stopped wagging in the two weeks since we found him.”

The dog licked the child’s face then zipped from lap to lap, jumping up and licking more faces. It leapt back to the floor, spun twice in place and barked. The man reached down and scratched it behind the ears.

“Happiest goddamn dog I’ve ever seen.”

A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet
I know I'm DQed because I'm late but I'm going to cast this spell for you other guys:

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

A Classy Ghost posted:

I know I'm DQed because I'm late but I'm going to cast this spell for you other guys:

you're still dqed but you just hmed my heart

Aug 2, 2002




lol i was gonna submit a spell but i couldn't find out how. totes jealous right now.

omg i joined ur coven ACG. i am gonna post so many spells

crabrock fucked around with this message at 17:53 on Dec 14, 2015


Mar 21, 2013

Grimey Drawer
Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law
Is the creed of the mage and the witch
But it's still understood
That fast judging is good
Cognitive dissent's such a bitch

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